


Inversion of Power

by Caenea



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur's a naughty boy, BDSM, Bottom Arthur, Corporal Punishment, Established Relationship, Kink, M/M, Master/Slave, Punishment, very naughty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 18:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Arthur disobeyed a direct order whilst he was out hunting with his Master and now they're alone, he has to pay. But Kings don't kneel, so what's a Knight to do?Make him, of course...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work originally appeared on ff.net under the title of All Our Darkest Secrets.

The castle is silent, and I am walking as silently down the corridor as I am able. I‘m hurrying, but trying to remain discreet - I‘m late, and I‘ll have to suffer for it. He’ll be angry. Angrier than he probably already is - I’m already in trouble. Trouble. I almost need to stop, almost need to steady myself against the wall. I hardly do it intentionally, but somehow, somehow I love it when I’m in for it with him. He’s so brutal, so hard, so dominant, and his hands are so fucking talented. I reach his chambers, and knock gently. His voice ripples like a pebble in a pool.

                “Enter.” I go in, and stand hesitantly, trying to look at him without looking. He’s sprawling at the table, relaxed at his chair. There is a riding crop dangling casually from his fingers, and his shirt is half open. He is angry, it’s almost crackling in the air.

 

_We were in the forest, supposedly hunting, and he’d pulled me away from the others, away from prying eyes, and forced me back against a tree, pushing me to my knees._

_“Suck me,” he ordered, pulling himself from his breeches, stroking my lips teasingly with the head of his cock._

_“Here?” I gasp, before I think. His eyes darken and a hand yanks my head back._

_“You do not speak to me like that.”_

_“Master,” I gasp, hoarsely. “I’m sorry -”_

_“Do as I told you.” Obediently, I open my mouth, leaning forward and taking as much as I can into my throat, knowing by now that he likes the maximum effort at the very start. What I can’t get into my mouth I play with my hand, loving that my actions cause him to groan and brace against the tree over my head. He’s thrusting into my throat, and I know to let my hands drop, knowing he wants to dictate the pace, knowing he wants this to be fast and angry. He pulls away from me, orders me onto hands and knees, drops behind me. Those strong hands are pulling my breeches away and I feel one long finger slide into me._

_“Oh - oh, God, Master!”_

_“Shut up. This isn’t about you.”_

_“Yes, Master.” I know what that means. He wants me to be strung so tight by tonight that I’ll beg deliriously for his touch, plead with him to fuck me brutally, undeniably hard. He prepares me gently, then positions himself, pausing, waiting, until I drop my head and murmur my desperate plea for him to do something, anything, just to touch me. His dark chuckle is accompanied by a delicious pressure, before I’m filled in only the way he can fill me. I’m already hard, already edging to the brink. No, I can’t - God, don’t let him touch me, I’ll lose it -. But his hand reaches round for me as he approaches his own climax, and he grazes the sweetest of spots and as he climaxes, so do I. He shoves me away, and there is fury in his face._

_“Tonight, you’ll come to me at sundown. You damn well better learn some fucking control, do you understand me?”_

_“Master - I - I -”_

_“I said, do you understand!” His voice cracks like a whip, and  I look up to him, trembling with anticipation and delicious fear._

_“Yes, Master,” I whisper. He walked away, leaving me to tidy myself as best as I could and rejoin the group looking like nothing had transpired behind the bushes._

 

His impatience is growing - I still haven’t assumed the position I should have done. I’ve already disobeyed him once. “You know how it is in this room, man. On your knees.” I hesitate, unable to equate myself suddenly. “On your knees, or say the word!” He barks the order, and I drop to my knees instantly. Sometimes I wonder exactly what he’d have to do to me before I’d say that word. He smiles lazily, and beckons me to come over to where he sits sprawled at the table. I drop until I’m on hands and knees, and crawl slowly towards him, not daring to assume I can stand and walk, not with the trouble I‘m already in. God, but I love it when I’m like this, subservient and obedient. God knows it took us long enough to train me to it. I kneel before him, within touching distance, within the grasp of his hands, within range of that riding crop, eyes suitably downcast, head up. He traces my face with his hand, smiling at me - a deadly, slow smile that does incredible things to my heartbeat. I know what‘s coming for me.

                “I apologise for my lateness, Master.” I venture the words tentatively, not having been given express permission to speak but knowing he expects something.

                “And what else?” My brow furrows.

                “Else, Master?”

                “Yes. What else do you have to say?” I feel the flush on my face, and he wraps a hand around my throat and hauls me closer, making me lose a little balance. I scramble to recover it, find myself mere inches from his lap. I can’t help the sound that escapes me, the barely audible moan, despite my pitiful attempt to smother it. “God, you fucking whore.”

                “I apologise for cumming without your permission, Master.” He claims my mouth in a hot, hard, fast kiss, before shoving me away from him. He radiates dominance.

                “Remove your shirt, unlace your breeches.” I do as he asks swiftly, and I can see a tell-tale bulge between his hips. Knowing that I make him hard, knowing that my submission arouses him, makes the blood pound through my veins, increasing and intensifying my own arousal. He drags me to my feet by the throat, hauling me onto tiptoe, and I gasp. He runs the hand gripping my throat to the back of my neck, and forces me down across his table. “Grip the far edge.” I do so, he runs his hands down the smooth plane of my back, thumbs meeting over my spine, my ultimate erogenous zone, and sure enough, I tense and press my hips down, desperately trying to find some contact to rub against. Like the night I rubbed myself against his leg into sheer ecstasy, head thrown back as I begged him to touch me, nearly sobbing with frustration when he denied me, refusing to untie my hands and arms so I couldn’t do it myself. “I’m not going to gag you, but I expect you to remain silent. Do you understand?”

                “Yes, Master.” He smoothes his hand over my doeskin breeches, must feel me tense and relax, undulating against his hand.

                “Responsive little whore.” I nearly whimper when he removes that caressing hand, but then it comes back in a ringing blow that very nearly makes me scream. I force myself to stay silent, not letting even a gasp of air escape, tingling all over, craving the next blow. When it comes, it’s not his hand, it’s the riding crop I’d almost forgotten he even had. My hips jolt forward, and then I relax back. He barely lets me recover before the next blow lands, and I jolt again. He beats me soundly, so quickly that I’m basically humping the table, contorting with the delicious pleasure-pain of it, and the desperate need to make some noise. Finally, he stops, and I rest my forehead against the smooth wood of his table, and gasp for air helplessly. I hear a clatter, and then his hands yank my breeches down, tugging until I step out of them. He presses a kiss against my shoulder blades. “That was well done.” I still can’t formulate a thought. He presses himself into my arse, and I can feel his hardness, and he places hot kisses over my neck and shoulders until my breathing has returned to something normal instead of painful gasps. “You can stand up.” I straighten, and his hands rub the stiffness out of my back and thighs. Under his tender ministrations, I quiver, shaking so hard I can feel it vibrating through every single muscle I have. His clever hands slip round to my front, and he wraps around my cock. I grit my teeth. “No, no. I want to hear you. And you have my permission to come when you want to.”

                “Thank you, Master.” I know it isn’t going to take very much, and his hands are very, very talented. He pushes me until I’m sitting on his table, so he’s standing before me. The next few minutes are a red haze, until I feel his mouth descend onto mine and his hand tighten in just the right way, and his finger sweep over the vein at the very base of my cock, and I gasp, dig my hands into his shoulders and cling on for dear life as I fall over the first edge. He smiles at me, and our kiss this time is deep and hot. His hand glistens in the firelight, and he raises it to my mouth. I know what he wants without him saying it, and I take his hand in both of mine and suck his fingers clean. His eyes darken, and I make it slow and sensual, never breaking eye contact.

                “In the chair,” he orders, pushing me down onto the hard wood, which makes me realise that I’m sore from the punishment he administered. It’ll be there all through tomorrow, and we’re going hunting. He knows that I’ll feel him. I shift, already hardening again, and my hands twitch. I want my hands on him and I want to feel him, but he denies me that by force, tying my wrists to the chair with our belts. This position means I’m exactly eye level with his cock, which I can see straining against his leather breeches. I bought him those, a Christmas gift from slave to Master, and I remember lacing him into them the next morning before I left him. He releases himself with a grunt of relieved satisfaction, and smirks at me. I lick my lips in anticipation, let my mouth fall open, not caring that I look like his little wanton whore. I want his cock, I want to taste him, I crave it. He kicks my legs apart, stands between them and he’s within touching distance, but as I lean forward eagerly, he puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back. I’m not in trouble, his smile is too broad. “Beg, man. Beg me to let you suck my cock.” I lick my lips, gaze up at him, breathing hard.

                “ _Please,_ Master. May I please suck your cock?” He hisses, but releases my shoulders and I leans forward eagerly, placing a gentle kiss onto the red, warm, silken softness, before opening my mouth wide and going down slowly, carefully never taking my eyes off his face. I stop, not because I want to, but because I need to, I can’t lean forward any more. I moan in frustration, and he brings his hips forward with a grunt. I carefully relax my throat, tell myself I don’t have a gag reflex, and let him slip in to the hilt. God, I remember the weekend he spent teaching me this, how amazing it was to have nothing to do but use my hands and mouth to bring him to ecstasy again and again. The memory makes me moan, and I pick up my pace, bobbing to the hilt and then pulling back, alternating kisses and licks and taking him deep in my throat. When his hips become erratic and his groans get louder, I know it’s normally my cue to stop. But when I pull back, he grabs the back of my head in a tight grip, fucking my mouth mercilessly.     

                “Swallow it all, man,” he orders, his voice hoarse. I grunt with assent, and he tenses so much it has to be painful. I swallow everything he gives me, and he grunts in approval, pulling away. He unbuckles my ties, and I slide off the chair onto the floor, taking my position at his feet as usual. He crosses to his bed and lies on his back, staring at his canopy. I wait for orders. “Come here. You may walk.” I get to my feet and walk over to him. I stop at the side of the bed - I’m almost never invited into his bed, and in the year of our relationship I’ve never once stayed overnight or slept in his bed. “On the bed. Come and lie with me.” He holds out an arm, and I curl myself into his side, placing my hand on his warm chest. I can feel his heart beating. His hand takes mine from his chest, guides it down to my erect cock, wrapping our joined hands around it. “Touch yourself.” I do so immediately, rolling onto my back, crooking my knees, and sweeping my hand over the head of my cock, gathering the drops of moisture that are there, using them to lubricate the long, tight strokes. I can’t help the words that escape.

                “Master, please…”

                “Please what?” he says, huskily.

                “Please,” I mutter, half-delirious. “Please fuck me.” I whisper the last and I hear his chuckle, before he grabs my legs and pushes them further apart. He prepares me gently, eases inside, and I hiss through my teeth. His pace is a rough, careless, selfish one, and it turns me on painfully. It takes little, and as he reaches down to grasp my cock and hit’s a spot inside, and snarls at me that I can come, I release with a long, drawn-out moan, bucking into his hand, tensing. He collapses beside me, and his arm slips around my waist.

 

He doesn’t hold me for long, nudges me out before I can sleep. I dress quickly, and kneel to wait for his permission to go, which he grants with a tender kiss. I’ve never spent the night, and frankly I wouldn’t expect to. Our boundary lines as slave and Master are clearly drawn. I am his slave and he is my Master. I would have this no other way.


End file.
